Say No To Drugs, Kids!
by Irilia
Summary: Obviously this behaviour was not natural, it was so obvious the stoners themselves probably knew they were stoned. Rated T for language and drug references.
1. Chapter 1

After a couple of weeks sitting in a god forsaken hole where everyone ate lasagne, tried to be friends with me and acted like they were abusing illegal substances, I came to a couple of conclusions.

First was that this was the biggest mistake of my life, coming here and living in this town. I came here because I figured crime rate would be down in a town full of cute kittens, pigs, and birds, not the drug use rate being higher - though this was not discussed, of course, as I'm pretty sure they thought they were acting perfectly normal.

The second was that this behaviour wasn't natural. Not in the joking 'you're so weird' sense, as in the 'somebody has most certainly been slipping you drugs' sense. You are just not supposed to see magical and musical notes floating around the heads of people you know are happy, and likewise, you do not see autumn leaves floating around the spooked. This, despite their convoluted beliefs, was_ not normal._

Third was that Redd had something to do with it. Word of advice for all future criminals operating underground shops: if you do not want the cops to know you are running it, don't talk to yourself about being careful of the cops every single time a customer comes around. In general, this will make you a lot more suspicious and therefore much more likely to get arrested.

I knew absolutely that I had to do something about this operation. Why? Well, it's no reason as fantastic as doing it for the good of mankind. Even if it was, I'd be absolutely retarded because I am saving _animals_. It was the fact that I was sick of seeing those damn musical notes and listening to everyone talk about lasagne, the Goddamn stuff. I have horrible memories of it. My mother makes lasagne soup; it's so horrible. And on top of that I'd already developed a solid foundation for hating the taste of ground beef-now I had to eat it wet while drowned in tomato sauce - something else I hated - and big flat pasta noodles, as well as disgusting smelling feta cheese.

Yes, I was sick of lasagne and underground drug missions. But there were some steps I'd have to take first to ensure that the town was ready for a hostile takeover on my part to rid the town of marijuana in that Goddamn lasagne, which I'm sure you're tired of hearing by now but it cannot be enforced enough that I freaking _hate_ lasagne.

Or, if my plan didn't work out, some big ass cops were going to come busting in and wreck some shit while we get filmed for one of those cop shows. Either way works.

The beginning of my plan had come to a rocky start...


	2. Chapter 2

First I had to check out the heavy cavalry. The brigade. The police force. The po pos. The shut up already.

Anyways, I was seriously disappointed. There were only two people who could be considered guards in this town, Booker and Copper; two dogs with minimal police and defense training who really just sat there for when you wanted to open the gate, a task that apparently you could not undertake yourself.

The first, Booker, was the classic stoner. There was no doubt about it he had been taking these drugs recreationally before the lasagne. This guy was tired as well as a fatass. He could not keep things organized. He was trained to change the town flag at anybody's will (I could imagine this being a problem in so many ways-Nazi takeover anyone?) and keeping the lost and found together, albeit not very well. All there ever was were pitfall seeds, and I could never forgive him despite his profuse apologies for losing my Mr. Mittens doll.

The second dog was Copper, the one who was always opening the door for you, unless he was standing at salute acting all pompous, prim, proper and just in general British. He spoke in a formal manner that drove me insane. It was almost more certain this dog was being laced, because nobody has that vocabulary in real life. It's the kind of vocabulary a drunken scholar would use, and I highly doubt he ISN'T one.

A quick conversation with these druggies confirms my suspicions; they are beyond stoned and beyond competent. I'm not really even sure they comprehended what I was trying to tell them, between Copper's language (I couldn't understand what HE was saying) and Booker's snot bubbles drifting out of his nose with every waking drunken snort.

I shook my head as I walked out of the foyer to the town. This was going to take some work.


End file.
